“He gave himself away, you say?” the desk-sergeant asked.
“Dead away,” admitted Jamison depressedly. “I knew he’d done it, the minute I first saw him, and if that wasn’t enough, I sent him out to get the room-clerk and he stopped in the doorway to take a last look straight where he’d put the bonds. And the first place he looked when he came back was the same spot. It was a shame to pinch him, he was so innocent.”
“But can you jug him?” queried the desk-sergeant.
“Jug him? I could hang him,” asserted Jamison in the profoundest disgust. “I got Murphy to frame a story that he’d found the bonds on a bell-hop, and when Murphy—”
“Me name’s O’Ryan, sorr,” interrupted the policeman.
“When O’Ryan sprang the plant and we went out, Craig went straight to look at the bonds and make sure they were safe. All I had to do was take Murph—O’Ryan by the hand and wait two minutes and then swing in the door and pull a flash-pistol. I had Craig neatly mugged with the bonds in his hands. Could I jug him, I ask you?”
“You could,” agreed the desk-sergeant. “But you keep saying all along that you knew he’d hidden out the bonds. How’d you know that?”
“His ears were pink,” said Jamison wearily. “If you saw a man who’d just been robbed of a fortune, you’d expect him to look sort of pale, wouldn’t you?”
“I would that.”
“This man was made up pretty good. His eyes looked sunk way back in his head, and he was pale to just the right extent. He put over the voice stuff pretty well, too. He’d made himself up with number one dead white, that he carried in his shaving-soap tube, but he’d left his ears pink, a nice, healthy pink. And I had only to take one look to know what was up.”